Endless as the Rain (Twilight AR)
by M.S. Kaye
Summary: Bella is kidnapped by the son of a mobster. Edward is certainly dangerous, but is he a threat to her or is he truly trying to protect her from the threats being made to her life? She must uncover the truth of his past, how it entwines with her own, if she wants to survive.
1. Chapter 1

Long-felt desires, hopes as long as vain—

sad sighs—slow tears accustomed to run sad

into as many rivers as two eyes could add,

pouring like fountains, endless as the rain—

cruelty beyond humanity, a pain

so hard it makes compassionate stars go mad

with pity: these are the first passions I've had.

 _Long-Felt Desires_

 _Louise Labe_

 _1520 -1566_

 **Chapter 1: Taken**

I was good at quiet. If I walked quietly, if I moved without anyone noticing, if I was just background, silent as the clouds, I could catch a glimpse of beauty. Some places were touched with tiny flashes of the sublime. You just had to pay attention. That wasn't always so easy.

My favorite lane was the strongest of these touched places. On my way home from a late day at the end of tax season, the gravel crunched under my feet and a breeze bounced among the trunks to lift my hair from my back and play with it. The lowering sun filtered through the fresh, bright green leaves above, a natural sunscreen for my fair skin. I lifted my face to it, to feel its warmth, to feel the color it brought to my cheeks.

The crunch was louder, from more than just my feet.

I looked around to see a black sedan creeping up behind me. I moved to get out of the way, barely on the gravel. I kept walking and vaguely appreciated that the driver didn't speed by in impatience and kick up dirt and rocks. The car continued at the same careful pace.

Just as the passenger door was at my arm's length, the car stopped. I guessed the driver must be seeking directions, and waited for a window to roll down. They had to be lost. I'd never seen an unfamiliar car on this road. It was only used or even known about by old residents of the neighborhood.

The back door opened, and a man stepped out.

I caught a glimpse of his tailored suit and overly straight posture as I glanced around, deciding if I should keep walking, walk quickly...or bolt into the trees toward one of the houses.

"It's getting late," he said. "Would you care for a ride home before it gets too dark?"

His voice—it sounded vaguely familiar. As I looked at him properly, part of my mind was distracted. His skin was like white marble, sculpting a beautiful face, but hard, unchanging, unyielding. Except his eyes. They were puddles in the stone, the only gentle thing about him.

I stepped back.

He lurched forward and grabbed my arm just above my elbow. His grip was oddly gentle.

I tried to pull away, and opened my mouth to scream.

"Please," he said.

I paused to look at him.

"Don't make a sound." He said it like a request.

I didn't understand.

He pulled me toward the open car door.

With all my strength, I yanked at my arm with zero success. His grip didn't hurt. It was like he allowed a slight amount of movement—just enough to make sure my arm wasn't bruised by my own struggling. It annoyed me, as if restraining me was no more difficult than restraining a toddler.

I pulled at my arm again.

Nothing.

I balled my hand into a fist and shifted to swing it at his face. Before I could make contact, he scooped me up in one swift movement and set me in the car. "Stop! Let me go!" But my yelling came too late; I was already in the car, my voice quieted by the closed windows.

The man sat, and I slid away from him and pulled at the other door handle. Of course, it was locked. What in the world was happening? He had the wrong girl. That had to be it. He'd mistaken me for someone important.

"Jammed?" he asked the driver.

The man in the front looked down at something on the seat next to him. "Yes, sir."

The man next to me slammed the door shut. "Drive."

The car backed down the lane, away from my street, and then spit gravel as it turned onto the main road.

"What do you want?" I demanded. What could he possibly expect to get from me? I had no money and no one who would pay ransom.

Jaw still tight, the man next to me said, "To protect you."

 _What?_

I came at him, ready to attack.

He grabbed my wrists, still somehow gentle. "Please, Bella."

I stopped and stared at him. He knew my name. He hadn't mistaken me for someone else.

His eyes were different. In the sun, they'd glowed like uncut emeralds, each angle and defect shining the light back at me. Now, behind the deeply tinted windows of the car, his eyes were shadowed, deep like an unexplored cavern.

I ripped my hands away, and he let go. I turned toward the side window, keeping him out of sight so maybe I could think straight. _You have to get out of this, Bella. Think_.

But the door was locked, and these two men were obviously extremely capable. They weren't like the other men I knew, the accountants and clerks. They were clean-cut and well dressed, but something more… They knew things, things they probably shouldn't know, things that might put them in danger, things that made them dangerous. It was in their quiet calm, their straight postures, their confidence.

My only chance was to be calm and watch for an opportunity, for them to make a mistake, anything. My body tightened as I fought to keep myself still.

The men didn't speak. Their silence was perfect. I turned slightly toward the front so I could see the driver and watch the other man from the corner of my eye.

The driver only drove, nothing else. He looked left before making a turn, showed me his face for the first time, and I saw nothing in his expression—no worry or concern, or even excitement at having caught their target. He turned his ash blond head back toward the windshield.

I did not look at the dark-haired man next to me, and yet I saw everything peripherally—his two-day-growth beard, the way he sat rigidly still, how he focused on the windshield, and how the fist that rested on his leg clenched so tightly it shook. His presence seeped into my skin like fog on an overcast day. Quiet and slow, it overwhelms your vision, seems to cloud your ears as you try to muddle your way through—but you can't. Headlights can't pierce it, and wind can't clear it. It clings to you.

Then he opened his fist and pressed his hand flat on his thigh. His chest expanded as he took a breath.

"I know you're frightened," he said.

I didn't respond, only stared straight ahead.

"But please believe me," he continued, "you are not in any danger. I won't hurt you."

 _Again with the please_.

"You said I was in danger," I retorted. Whatever he'd meant by that.

His voice was gentle. "Not from me."

I turned toward the side window, away from him, trying to frustrate or annoy him and cause him to make a mistake, leave me an opening, something.

He was silent.

I kept waiting for them to talk, maybe talk to each other about what they were going to do next, or maybe to explain what in the world they were doing. The freeway rushed by, and then we exited onto a secluded road. The misty, wild forest reached out to the car as if trying to pull me out, rip me away. The sun was beginning to fall and peeked out from among the trees, piercing the car with flashes of pink light.

I looked around me to find something to break the window.

"They're bullet-proof," the dark-haired man beside me said.

"Who has bullet-proof windows?" I snapped. "What are you, a crime lord?"

His jaw clenched even tighter.

We turned onto a hidden drive.

Crap. I pulled at the door handle again. "Let me out," I demanded. "I don't have money, and I don't know anyone important."

"But you have information that puts you in danger."

"I'm just a bookkeeper." As we passed a manned gate, my voice rose. "I don't know anything."

"Please give me a chance to explain."

The driver took the bends up the hill too quickly, and I held on to the handle of the door to keep from sliding on the leather seats. As we made the final curve, a house appeared from beyond the branches, a huge, brick house, surrounded by gardens and more of those wild trees. Wait, a house in the hills? That wasn't a normal hideout for a kidnapper, was it? I would've imagined some dank alley, not a beautiful estate overlooking the ocean.

Both men exited the car. The driver opened my door and offered his hand.

I positioned my feet just right. And then I burst out of the car, shoving my hands at the driver's lower stomach to try to knock him off balance. He stumbled back.

I turned to run, no idea where I was going or how to get off this property.

But the dark-haired man was there in front of me like a brick wall.

As I tried to get around him, he took my hand and said, "Please." His hand was cool and still oddly gentle, and something in his eyes seemed so sincere.

"Kidnapping someone isn't generally the best was to get them to listen," I said. "If you really just want to explain something, you wouldn't have done all this."

"I waited until the last moment. There was no more time."

"What're you talking about?"

"There are men in your house. If you would've turned the corner onto your street, it would have been too late."

"What?"

"Please," he said. "Just let me talk to you for a few minutes. I'll explain."

I continued to glare at him.

"You're already here," he said. "Just sit with me for a few minutes. After I explain, you'll have a better understanding so you can make more informed decisions."

Such a logical argument annoyed me.

I took my hand away from him. For some reason, I felt like contact with him made it harder for me to think. He let go easily.

We met each other's gaze for a few seconds. The sun brightened the color of his eyes, like imperfections in uncut emeralds.

As if he'd read my decision, he started toward the house.

I followed.

As he passed the driver, he held his hand up, telling the driver to go, not follow into the house. "Thank you, Jasper."

Jasper got back in the car and left, and I followed the other man, hoping I hadn't made the wrong decision.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Explanation**

I wasn't sure if I followed him because I didn't have many other options or because I was curious. My gut told me he wasn't interested in hurting me, and ransom definitely wasn't his goal—this house was the size of my house times five.

Up the front steps, he held one of the double doors for me. My attention focused past the shadowed entry across the house, to the main source of light, a wall of windows and glass doors that looked to the forest, and I thought maybe, to cliffs. He led me to the right, toward a kitchen. The large window over the sink stopped most of the shadows at the archway.

He motioned for me to have a seat at the kitchen table. I sat and considered how to handle this. I wasn't sure how to go about getting answers out of him. I used to be able to get my father to tell me things, but that was forever ago. I barely interacted with people anymore.

He walked around the marble-topped island to one of the many cabinets. His shoes made little sound on the stone floors. Why did his dress shoes have rubber soles? That didn't seem to match how well-tailored his suit was, his extravagant car, the sparkling light fixtures in his house. And I knew this must be his house—how else would he know exactly where the plates were?

The room smelled of the remnants of a meal, chicken maybe, and marinara sauce. A pot, perhaps from the sauce, sat on the counter by the sink, drying on a towel.

I sat there quietly, trying to be calm, to keep from insisting he give me answers.

He set a plate in front of me with two rolls and a small jar of apple butter. "You must be hungry."

I said nothing, trying to contain my annoyance.

He moved toward the sink. Clink of glasses in a cabinet. Water running.

His phone rang. Water still running, he answered his phone with, "It's done." His tone was low, angry. "I know… Do your job… Most likely. Stay alert…" His voice became too quiet to hear over the rush from the faucet. He slipped his phone back into his breast pocket and returned to set a glass of water in front of me.

His tall frame in its dark suit loomed over me, threw a shadow across the room. He pulled the next chair out and faced me as he sat.

His voice was soft, kind. "Please don't be afraid."

What was it with him and that word?

"What do you think you're protecting me from?" I asked. If his honest intentions were to protect me, he had to have something wrong. My life was simple, dull, easy. I did my job then went home. That was it. What kind of trouble could a bookkeeper get into? My tone calmed. "I don't understand."

"I know."

His gaze turned down and toward the glass of water on the table. The tilt of his head showed the precise angles of his jaw, his nose, his brow. His fair skin had a pureness to it. Finally, he looked back up and spoke in a calm, deep voice. "I promise you're safe. I won't let anyone hurt you."

I tried to keep the frustration out of my voice. "I don't understand."

"I know, Bella."

Something was warm in my chest. He affected me strongly for some reason, which just added to my frustration. I wasn't used to people having much impact on me.

"My name is Edward Cullen," he said. "Our fathers were…associates."

My face twisted in more confusion. Wait, I'd heard his name, or rather, read it—something about his taking over a factory outside Seattle. I only read the front page of the paper, not the financial section, but I'd gotten the feeling his name appeared there often. And there was something else, something with the name Cullen, something from a long time ago and not pleasant…

"Your father was an accountant," he said, "at the same firm at which you now work. You're smart like he was, perhaps too smart."

He leaned as if trying to catch my gaze. His hand moved toward mine as it rested on my little bag in my lap, but stopped. The back of his hand wasn't smooth like his palm. His first two knuckles looked like they'd been battered, cracked open on multiple occasions. They were thick. The skin was tough on the rest, but not as gnarled as on those two. He'd hit things, a lot of things.

With as much focus as I could, I looked him in the eye. Everything about him was hard, unyielding, and yet the kindness in his eyes mixed with that hardness, like flowers blooming out of rock.

Head tilted forward, he bored his gaze into me. "A few days ago," he said, "you discovered more than you were supposed to." His jaw clenched. "Samuel Dean."

"No. He said I made a mistake." Mr. Mason had made it clear that I'd gotten it wrong—very clear. He'd let me do nothing but tedious filing for the last several days.

"John Mason knew damn well it wasn't a mistake. He told Dean what you found. It was more than embezzlement, Bella. He should have never let you work on that account."

"I'm just a bookkeeper."

His eyebrow cocked. "And yet you found what he had so carefully hidden."

"No, I…" But I'd known I was right—Councilman Samuel Dean was embezzling from the city. I'd tried to trust that Mr. Mason was more accurate in his assessment, but what Edward was saying was starting to make sense.

"They've been watching you, deciding if you were a threat, if you were expendable. Today the decision was made."

My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

"I had to act quickly." The hard edge of his voice softened. "I'm so sorry I scared you."

"How do you know about this?" I asked.

He hesitated. "I know much about the people in this city. I keep tabs on those of influence."

Could he possibly be any more vague? I opened my mouth to ask for more explanation, but then another man in a dark suit walked into the kitchen.

"Have you checked?" he asked Edward.

"I've got this under control." Edward's voice was cold. "And you?"

There must have been an order hidden in the phrase. The other man said, "Yes, sir," and left.

Edward turned back to me. "You must be tired—you've had a trying day. I have a room prepared for you." He paused then, with a reluctant sigh, added, "But first I must ask one more favor." He nodded toward my bag. "May I?"

I just looked at him.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I must check your bag."

"Why?"

"They have been watching you very closely."

I opened my mouth to speak as he interrupted with another quiet, "Please."

I handed him my bag.

He quickly searched the contents and put each item on the table—wallet, phone, keys, and a little notebook and pencil. As he checked each pocket of my wallet, it shocked me that it really didn't bother me, didn't feel like an invasion of privacy, even though I never let anyone look through my things. Then he put his hand in the bag as if searching for more. I watched curiously. There was nothing more to find.

A quiet ripping sound. He removed his hand and held it out so I could see a small device in his palm. Then he put it on the floor and ground it into the travertine with his heel.

My stomach lurched as I stared at the little pile of debris. "They were listening?"

There was sympathy in his voice. "Yes."

I tried to calm myself by remembering that they—whoever exactly they were—had heard very little. Other than work, just silence as I read or sketched.

He returned my wallet, notebook, and pencil to the bag and handed it back to me.

He picked up my phone and keys. "I'll need to hold on to these, if you'll allow. It isn't wise to use your phone, and I would like to borrow your keys. Once we find the opportunity, we will need to search your house. Do you happen to have any papers from work there?"

I shook my head. A bookkeeper taking financial records home—that was a sure way to get fired. "What do you mean 'search my house'?" And who was "we"?

He continued to sound sympathetic. "I'll try to have some of your things brought back for you," he said. "Do you have anything in particular you would like to have retrieved?"

"You want me to stay here?"

"For your safety."

"How long?"

"I will do everything possible to make it safe for you, but I'm not sure how long that will take."

"Are you crazy?"

He held my eye contact and continued to speak in that low, calm voice of his. "I know how bright you are, intuitive, even." He motioned toward the little pile of debris on the floor. "You've seen the bug for yourself." He rested his hand on his thigh, and his voice quieted even more. "And I can see that you know I'm being truthful."

I said nothing.

"Surely, you see," he said, "it's wiser not to risk the danger simply because you're uncomfortable staying here, with your routine being broken."

I stared at him for a few seconds. How'd he know that?

Then I looked away, toward the window above the sink and out to the wild trees that reached into the neat and tidy flowerbeds. The thought of breaking my careful routine almost seemed worse than any of the danger he was talking about. My routine was how I got through my days, my life.

He stood.

I was still.

"Is there anything I can get for you?" he asked. "I want to make this as comfortable as possible."

I shook my head.

"If you think of anything, please let me know."

A pause.

"A room has been prepared for you," he said. "You must be tired."

I looked up at him. The sun touched just the side of his face and cast the rest in shadow. He held his hand out.

I glanced at his hand. Then I stood.

He led me across the stone floor of the entry to the staircase that stood between the dining and great rooms. The polished, dark wood curved gracefully to the second story from which I could see out the tall windows that crowned the French doors in the shadowed living room below. The lack of sun was now turning the forest black, but glowing pink clouds still streaked the sky.

At the top of the stairs, he led me to the right, to the last door, and then stopped to open it. He allowed me to step through, walked in behind, and paused just inside.

"I hope you'll be comfortable. I'll have a man in the hall, and you need only ask," he said. "He'll get you anything you want."

I nodded.

He touched the bolt on the door. There was a brass plate on the outside, where the keyhole would be. "It locks only from the inside."

He paused as if waiting for me to say something. I was quiet.

He turned to go.

"Edward."

He paused. When he turned back to me, something in his eyes was different, like he was farther away. "Yes?"

"None of this makes sense." I understood the words, but it was like reading a story in a book, not what happened in my life.

"You're safe," he said.

"I don't know if I can stay here."

"You're safe. I promise." With an attempt at a smile, he walked out and closed the door behind himself.

Anxiety began to tingle up my spine.

I turned, barely seeing the room, and found someplace to sit—a sofa next to a crackling fireplace. I looked into the hot flames and tried to sort the chaos in my head.

A bug in my purse. Mr. Mason had to have been the one to plant it there—he was the only one who could've had access. I found myself doubting everyone I interacted with on a regular basis, even Bobby, the boy from the mailroom who tended to follow me around.

I didn't really know anyone—couldn't trust anyone.

And what about Edward? Who was he? How was he involved?

Then there was Councilman Dean. This didn't seem like the way a politician would go about things. Wouldn't he try a bribe or something? It didn't fit. I was missing something, a lot of somethings. Although my gut told me everything he'd said was the truth, Edward hadn't told me much, maybe so as not to scare me. Not knowing was worse. I didn't know if Councilman Dean wanted to hurt me, or simply scare me. Edward had said I was too great a risk and expendable, but I wasn't sure if I knew exactly what that meant—what it meant to me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Goldilocks**

 _ *****Edward*****_

Edward closed the door behind himself and paused to look at it for a few seconds. He hoped he was doing this right. He couldn't fuck this up. He knew he should have talked to her more, told her more of what was going on, more of the truth—just not all of the truth. But he wasn't sure how to word it all yet, how to tell her enough to keep her calm, keep her from leaving, while not letting her figure too much. She was too damn smart. He had to handle her carefully.

He headed for the stairs. Emmett was surely not far, but Edward wasn't in the mood to deal with him. Edward only spoke when necessary, when he could handle a conversation, and tonight was not one of those nights. He also knew that night would not be a night for sleep. The gardens and the clearing would likely be his company, not his dreams—he couldn't handle those tonight.

Then he paused on his way through the great room to the back yard. Perhaps he would take a trip to Providence Street instead. He could park in that little lane she liked so much and slip through the dark yards of the neighboring houses. The area should be checked out, anyway. They didn't know exactly how many men Dean had loyal to him, how many were watching her house—more intel was necessary before they made any further moves. Besides, she would need fresh clothes in the morning. He needed to be occupied tonight, and this would do the trick.

 _ *****Bella*****_

Curled into the corner of the sofa, I eventually fell asleep, still with thoughts and worries circling my head, like vultures feeding off my sense of calm.

Even in my dreams, I couldn't gain that comfortable feeling of numbness, not completely. I couldn't remember the last time I'd dreamed, but I woke with the sense I'd been dreaming something pleasant, beautiful, something far-off and unattainable. It felt like when I used to dream about my parents. I was glad I didn't remember the dream.

I opened my eyes and touched my cheek. It was wet. I looked at my damp fingertips as if they were scaly. I hadn't cried in years.

My legs stiff from being curled up, I slowly straightened them and sat normally on the sofa. The morning light filled the room, brightened it enough to be able to see the furnishings properly. It was luxurious, just like the rest of the house. Dark-paneled walls backdropped the stone fireplace. The bed looked like clouds, white and fluffy. The furniture was all dark wood with traditional lines, maybe antiques, very expensive and well-restored antiques.

Behind the sofa was a desk with some books on it. I reached back and grabbed the one off the top. _Jane Eyre_. I picked up the next two— _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ and _Pride and Prejudice_. I set them back down. It had to be a coincidence, just like the apple butter. All women liked those books, right? It was just by luck that they were my favorites.

I stood from the sofa and walked over to the window. I'd pushed my shoes off at some point, to more easily be able to pull myself into a ball. The rug felt like cashmere on my feet. I didn't own any cashmere, of course, but I'd picked up Mr. Mason's dry cleaning enough to know what it felt like. I should've realized an accountant's clothes shouldn't be that extravagant—my father's hadn't been.

This side of the house sat at the edge of the cliffs, and the windows faced the ocean. I felt like I was right on top of it. The ocean reflected the rising sun, gold glittering off the restless waves. The trees just outside the window had to be growing out of the side of the cliff; they were so close I could hear the wind shake the branches and flutter the leaves as it swished around the house.

Something in my chest felt like the fluttering leaves. Nothing in me had fluttered for a very long time. I'd learned a long time ago how to push my mother's illness and my father's car accident into compartments in my head, and I allowed nothing else in my life that evoked emotion. Part of me would've rather been taken prisoner, rather than as a guest. I would know what I was supposed to feel. In many ways, fear was easier to handle than confusion. It was clean, focused. I wouldn't have to think about it.

I hoped movement would help. I started toward the shower, dreading having to put back on the same clothes.

A quiet knock.

I paused, considering ignoring the knock. But I couldn't very well hide in here.

I smoothed my shirt then cracked the door.

The old woman's kind face creased with her smile. "I didn't wake you, did I, dear?"

I opened the door a bit wider. "No."

"Edward said you'd be up early. He thought you would like to have some of your own things." She handed me a small duffle and then rested her delicate hands on the front of her flowered apron.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, dear. Come down when you're ready, and I'll have some breakfast for you." Still smiling gently, she turned for the steps.

I closed the door and put the bag down on the chair then began rummaging through its contents—an assortment of my clothes. I found my jeans and a plain shirt. Then I walked past the perfectly made bed to the bathroom. It was bright, with old-fashioned white tile, and on the counter sat shampoo, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a hair brush, and a nightgown. The shampoo was a different brand, much more expensive, but the same raspberry scent I used, and the nightgown was the right size. I was starting to feel like Goldilocks, only everything was right for me on the first try.

Thankful to have clean clothes to put on, I showered and dressed. Then I hesitated to go downstairs. I didn't feel like being around other people—I rarely did.

Then I decided I had to go down. I didn't want to be rude to the woman who'd invited me, and I was famished. I'd skipped both lunch and dinner the day before.

In the wide hall, a man was sitting in an arm chair. A thick, blond mustache dominated his face. He gave the impression of innocence despite his age, about forty. He looked up from his newspaper, smiled, and greeted me. "Good morning."

"Good morning." I passed him and descended the stairs.

Near the base of the stairs stood a grandfather clock that had to be a hundred years old. Several paintings hung on the walls, mostly landscapes. The sun hit at just the right angle to show the brush strokes—they weren't lithographs; they were originals.

I continued toward the scent of sausage and eggs. As I rounded the corner, the same old woman, busy at work over the stove, came into view.

"Hello again, dear," she said over her shoulder. "Breakfast will be ready in just a few minutes."

I nodded. Then I added, "Can I help with anything?"

"Oh, I'm about done." She turned to look at me, and her kind but somewhat dismissive tone changed. "But if you want, you can take those plates to the dining room."

Thankful to have something to do, I picked up the plates, napkins, and silverware sitting to the side on the counter and carried them across the entryway. After setting eight places, I realized I would be meeting several more people this morning.

Great.

As I finished, a few men began entering and finding seats. I recognized the man from the hall a few minutes earlier, as his mustache curved in another smile, and also the driver, Jasper, who was deep in conversation with the man from the kitchen yesterday. When they saw me, they stopped talking—mid-sentence.

I went back to the kitchen to see if I could help the woman with anything else.

When we returned with platters of food, five of the chairs were filled, and Edward was just entering. He moved to stand by the chair at the head of the table. He was watching me.

I managed not to spill the eggs as I set them down. My hands didn't seem to want to work right; between the kitchen and the dining room, they'd forgotten how to grip.

"Thank you, ladies," Edward said.

The woman took a seat at the middle of the table, and Edward held out the chair next to it. I waited for him to take his seat.

Then he motioned for me to sit in the chair he was holding.

Right, he was being polite. I wasn't used to that anymore. I sat.

Edward took the chair at the head of the table, to my left. As soon as he was seated, everyone began reaching for bowls and platters. Conversation burst into life, mostly from the two men I hadn't seen before. The woman was looking around me to Edward. Her wrinkles curved up slightly.

I took a piece of toast when the woman offered it and nibbled at the corners.

"How are you this morning?"

I looked up and realized Edward was talking to me.

"Fine," I said. His careful tone was almost frustrating somehow, maybe because I wasn't used to people talking to me like that, carefully, as if nervous to upset me.

Edward reached for his glass of orange juice and barely sipped.

He set his glass down and faced me again. "What would you like for breakfast?"

I realized I was watching him, and looked away at the platters covering the table. I reached for the bowl of scrambled eggs.

He was faster. He took the bowl, scooped some onto my plate, and then offered a biscuit and placed the dish of apple butter within reach. Then he served himself.

He ate little.

I ate some, just the stuff I could stab with the fork. I left the rest.

At least the food was good. The woman was a great cook, and she'd made several of my favorite things.

I didn't look at the others at the table too much, but studied them peripherally and listened. All the men, except the one with the mustache, gave me the same impression of "knowing" that Jasper had yesterday, with a kind of hardness in their eyes even when they smiled.

"Nah, man. The 49ers. I'm telling you," the thick one was saying—although all of them had a strong build, this one was even bigger.

"I'm taking you on this one," his friend said.

The thick one smirked.

The one with the mustache, who was sitting across from me, had his newspaper folded on the table next to him. "What've you got, six months 'til the next season starts? Are you going through withdrawal already?"

"It's more interesting than the news," one of the others retorted.

The grin was still curving his mustache.

"At least he reads." Jasper kept eating, as if he hadn't said anything.

"I read."

Jasper didn't respond. The man with the mustache grinned wider.

The old woman smiled gently throughout the meal. She actively joined in the conversation, once it moved away from sports. Edward didn't participate but seemed to listen. He was definitely paying attention to something. The one from the kitchen yesterday, the one with the Italian complexion, did not speak and seemed to be focused on the opposite end of the table, my end of the table. Something in the way he held his shoulders and the stiffness of his movement made me think he wasn't happy.

Edward's chin tilted slightly. The man with the Italian complexion started eating.

The conversation didn't slow, not until the men finished eating, three of them within seconds of each other. They took their plates to the kitchen and then congregated just outside the dining room.

The one with the mustache cleared his plate and then left through the front door. The only two men remaining were Edward and the unhappy one. Edward stayed seated while the other one rose, slowly.

"Ten minutes," the man with the Italian complexion said over his shoulder, and the others disappeared down a hall.

"I'll call you when I leave," Edward said. When the other one didn't go, Edward's voice dropped out of polite. "Shortly."

"Yes, sir." He left down the same hall as the others.

Edward stood. "Thank you, Hanna."

"You're welcome, dear."

"Would you mind keeping Bella company today?"

He was leaving? He expected me to sit here all day?

I stood. "I need to talk to you."

"I'm sure you have several questions," he said. "But I must beg to put them off until later. I would like to ask that you not call anyone, not even to call off sick."

Hanna grabbed a couple plates and walked into the kitchen.

"What do you expect me to do?" I asked.

"I expect nothing of you." His expression was level, like bathwater that had been left to cool. "All I ask is that you stay here, and we'll talk later. You're safe here."

I worked to keep the frustration out of my voice, not entirely succeeding. "Edward—"

"We'll talk later. I promise." He walked away toward the front door. Then he paused to look back at me. "Hanna has my number if you need anything." He stepped out and closed the door behind himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: The Fence**

"Well," Hanna said as she came back into the dining room, "I suppose we haven't met properly. I'm Hanna. It's nice to meet you, Bella."

I looked away from the door and tried to focus on her. "Nice to meet you."

She continued clearing the table. "Edward had me leave some books in your room, or there's the TV in the great room…" Her sentence trailed off as I began to help gathering the dishes.

She followed me into the kitchen. "I've got this. You don't—"

I set my load in the sink and turned to smile at her. "Where do you keep the dish soap?" I refused to show my frustration in front of Hanna, partially not to upset her and partially so she didn't report back to Edward. If he wanted to know what I was thinking, he'd have to deal with me straight-on.

She paused. "Under the sink."

She allowed me to wash the dishes, while she scraped the leftovers into plastic containers and then wiped the counters and stove. She glanced once over the growing pile of clean dishes as she set a pot next to the sink. Apparently, I passed inspection.

I thought for sure she would ask me why I was here, who in the world this strange girl was in her house—I knew she lived here by how particular she was about how leftovers were arranged in the refrigerator—but she didn't ask anything. Interesting.

"So," I said, "you're the cook around here, I see. Do you handle anything else?"

She looked over her shoulder and smiled. "I pretty much run the household for Edward. He's too busy to handle all those little details."

But by the ease of her manner with Edward and how possessive she was of this kitchen, I had the feeling she wasn't merely hired help.

I tried to sound casual. "What does he do for a living exactly, anyway?"

"He has offices downtown, but to be honest, I don't totally understand what he does. I think he does a lot of different things, which would explain why he's so busy all the time." She opened the refrigerator and arranged a couple of containers of leftovers on one of the middle shelves.

I'd hoped I could glean some information from her. I couldn't think of any more questions to ask without starting to come off as pushy, which might make her clam up completely.

As we dried and put away the last of the dishes, she mentioned again about the books upstairs or the TV in the great room.

"Um, actually," I said, "would you mind if I took a walk around outside?"

I expected her to come up with some excuse for me to stay inside, but she said, "Sure. Out back has the prettiest view of the ocean, and out front are the flower gardens."

I smiled. "I bet the daffodils are blooming." Part of me actually did want to see the flower gardens.

"It's warm out. I don't think you'll need a jacket today." She started gathering towels and dishrags and putting them in a pile on the kitchen table.

"Do you want to come with me?" I asked.

"I've got to get a couple loads of laundry done. Edward had me busy all day yesterday."

Good. That's what I hoped. She struck me as the type to finish something once she started, so I figured she would want to do her laundry rather than waste time on a walk. And this way, I'd made the offer and avoided raising her suspicion as to why I wanted to go outside.

A few minutes later, I walked out the door, and glanced down the drive. I couldn't see the gate from here, with all the bends in the drive and trees and shrubbery. To the right, a few trees dotted the edge of the cliffs that overlooked the ocean. That direction was out. Straight ahead stretched patches of grass framed by curving beds of flowers. It wasn't one of those structured, architectural-type gardens. It looked like the heavens had opened and spilled splotches of color all over the lawn.

I walked across the drive and meandered through the grassy areas. I half looked at the flowers and half looked around at everything else. Trees bordered the property all around, except where the ocean was to the right. The forest was thickest straight ahead, and I noticed a man walk down the drive toward the garage on my left and then disappear into the trees there. More security. I continued meandering forward, toward the thicker branches.

At the edge of the grass, a fir tree leaned over, shading the garden. With a quick glance around, I slipped by the soft needles and into the woods. It was like jumping down the rabbit hole. Everything was ten shades darker. I glanced back at the house again to make sure no one was around and then continued farther into the woods.

The ocean washed ashore somewhere on my right. I kept track of the sound so I wouldn't get lost.

I trudged through the ferns covering the moist ground. Without the sun to warm me, I started to wish I had a jacket.

A sound from my right.

I knelt down behind some brush. I could barely see as a man, a different man, passed by about ten feet in front of me. He absentmindedly manipulated a butterfly knife as he walked, the way a normal man might flick cigarette ashes. Why did Edward have so many men like this? Who was he?

Once I was sure the man was gone, I crept forward. My steps made almost no sound. As I crossed the makeshift path the man had followed, I was careful to leave no trace of my footsteps.

I walked, and then I walked some more.

About fifteen minutes later, I started to think about turning around. My plan was to assess my surroundings, not to run, at least not yet.

I stopped at a chain-link fence partially obscured by the brush. I walked along it to the right, to a spot where the brush cleared. The fence was tall, about ten feet, and barbed wire lined the top. There was no way I could climb it.

Close to the beach now, I looked over the cliffs. The fence continued all the way down to the beach, and before it hit the water, it changed to tall blocks of concrete connected by what looked like wire or maybe rebar that let the water wash through. The barricade cut through the waves for a good twenty feet. I took a breath and exhaled a defeated sigh. Unless I swam, which I stank at, especially in the turbulent ocean, there was no way around.

"Hi there," a voice said from behind me.

Crap. I fixed my expression and turned. "Hi."

It was a woman this time. She walked toward me with long, steady strides. She held her shoulders square just like the men, but she also smiled—it seemed to make her short, blond hair seem even brighter. Her white teeth contrasted prettily with her tan skin. I used to wish I was tan, until my father told me once how he'd loved my mother's peaches-and-cream skin. My coloring was just like hers.

"You must be Miss Swan," she said.

"Bella." Did everyone know my name? "I was just out for a walk. Hanna said the view from here was pretty." Hopefully, she wouldn't check that with Hanna.

She stood next to me and looked out to the waves. "Yeah, I like it here, but the view from out back is prettier. And I hear the view from the room Mr. Cullen gave you is better than anything else." She looked at me and smiled.

Was she trying to hint that I shouldn't be out here? I returned her smile and looked back to the ocean. I felt kind of puny next to her. I had enough muscle not to be super-tiny, but nothing like her. She carried it well, too, still curvy, like the way beach volleyball players were.

Her voice was gentler. "So, is everything okay?"

"Yeah." I shrugged. "As good as can be expected."

"I hear ya."

Then we were quiet again. She didn't try to get me to move on. She just stood with me and looked out over the waves, as if she really did enjoy the view.

"Well," I said, "I suppose I should head back before Hanna worries."

"I hear she does tend to do that. I'll walk with you."

I appreciated that she didn't make me feel like she was escorting me back to where I was "supposed" to be. We followed the cliffs and came back to the garden.

"I'm Rosalie, by the way," she said. "Let any of us know if you need anything."

"Thanks, Rosalie." I walked away, toward the house, and she headed along the trees away from the cliffs. I watched her disappear down the curves of the drive.

As I started up the front steps, I noticed the man with the blond mustache coming out of the garage carrying a tool box…

I couldn't climb or go around the fence. Maybe there was another way.

 **Note to the readers:**

As I understand the Fanfiction terms, I'm not supposed to post chapters from published books. Since this book is now published as of today (9/4/16), I will have to stop posting chapters.

I'm sorry I didn't figure out the terms before I started. To make up for it (for anyone who has added me or this story to their favorites or alerts), if you want to reach out to me via email, I'll send you a copy of the completed book in eBook format (ePub, Mobi, PDF). (I will not share your email or spam you.) My email: Melissa If you prefer to purchase, it's only $3.99 on all major retail sites.

Thank you for reading _Endless as the Rain_ , book 1 of the Taken series!


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